What Motivates Us
by moonlighten
Summary: April, 2010: England, Scotland and Wales embark on a road trip. (Mentions of Scotland/France.) Two chapters, complete. Part 46 of the Feel the Fear series.
1. Chapter 1

**16th April, 2010; London, England**

-  
>England wrenched open the front passenger door of Wales' car before Wales had even finished parking it, and snarled, "What the hell is he doing here?"<p>

Before Wales had chance to answer, Scotland said, "You could just ask me," in a falsely-wounded tone that Wales knew never failed to set England's teeth on edge. "I am sitting right here."

Predictably, England's eyes became flinty, and he turned his glare from Wales onto Scotland. "And therein lies the problem."

As the tendons in Scotland's neck were becoming more pronounced, and the fingers on his right hand already flexing, Wales thought it prudent to step in situation deteriorated into the usual slanging match. It would no doubt only be delaying the inevitable, but if he could postpone it long enough that it was contained within the confines of the car then at least it'd spare England's poor neighbours the disruption.

"It was my suggestion," he said. "It seemed stupid to be taking two cars when we're all going to the same place anyway. This way, we'll free up a spot on the ferry for someone else who might need it more and all save some money in the process."

He didn't add that he'd also been worried that Scotland's car wouldn't be able to manage such a long journey without rattling itself to pieces in the process because Scotland was strangely protective of his horrible little rust bucket. In fact, Wales thought it a miracle almost as fantastic as the fact that it somehow managed to pass its MOT year after year that it'd made it to Cardiff intact, given the exhaust's sporadic hiccoughs of black smoke and the high-pitched whine the engine was emitting as it pulled up outside Wales' house.

"Save money?" England snorted derisively. "You don't honestly think he's going to chip in for anything, do you? We'll end up paying for his share on top of our own, no doubt."

"Are you trying to say I'm tight?" Scotland snarled.

"If the cap fits," England scoffed. "And don't you dare pretend to be offended because I know you consider your frugality a point of pride."

"Aye, frugality. I am not tight," Scotland said, even though he would usually also cheerfully admit to being tight, and consider that a point of pride, as well.

"Come on, I haven't seen you voluntarily crack open your wallet since… No, I don't think I've ever seen you do that."

England's voice had been steadily rising in volume, and it appeared to have caught the attention of two teenagers who had been cycling along the pavement on the opposite side of the road. They'd stopped their bikes, and were now stood watching England with evident interest, no doubt thinking that tensions would escalate further and they'd get to see a fight. Wales smiled at them and waved, hoping to reassure them that all was well and they should carry on to wherever it was they were going. The younger of the boys, who was probably no more than thirteen, gave Wales the two fingered salute and they both laughed.

"Little shits," Wales muttered under his breath. He coughed and then said a little louder, "Listen, guys, could we –"

"However, it does seem as though you can find it within yourself to part with your cash for _some _things." England spoke over Wales as though he hadn't even heard him, or, more likely, was purposefully ignoring him in favour of continuing to needle Scotland. "Like new clothes, for instance," he said, flicking the lapel of Scotland's smart charcoal grey jacket, which, admittedly, did look as though it had cost more than the sum of all the other clothes Scotland had ever owned combined.

"Not that it's any of your business," Scotland growled, pushing England's hand away roughly. "but this was a gift." He propped one foot up on the glovebox, leaving a scattering of dried mud smeared across the plastic, as though he were attempting to draw England's attention to the fact that he was still wearing tatty jeans and even tattier trainers. "I don't see why you're getting all het up about money, anyway. You'll just claim it all back on expenses, so what does it matter?

"What matters is that I'm travelling for legitimate business reasons, and you're…" England's jaw set, and his Adam's apple bobbed vigorously as though his throat was fighting the formation of whatever words wanted to say. "Whereas yours are entirely personal," he continued after a moment. "It wouldn't be honest."

"And what name'll be on the forms, England?" Scotland asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Will it be the 'United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland' like it usually is? Because, as I see it, that's me covered, too."

"That's a specious argument and you know it." England's Adam's apple dipped once more as he swallowed loudly. "If you want all-expenses-paid trips to the continent, then you can damn well put in the work that goes with it, Scotland. Until you're willing to do that –"

"And you know that it's got absolutely sod all to do with how _willing_ I might be, _Sasainn_," Scotland said, voice low and taut, shot through with barbs of true anger now.

"Jesus," Wales hissed, rubbing his forehead as he slumped a little further over his steering wheel.

Through the windscreen, he could see that the two boys were still staring at the car, and, a little further down the street, a few net curtains were twitching. England's next-door neighbour, Mr Featherstonehaugh, had also wandered outside at some point, and seemed to be taking an inordinately long time to put his rubbish into the wheelie bin at the end of his drive. The last thing they needed was some well-meaning citizen calling the police on them again. They were usually let off with nothing more than a stern talking to, but sometimes an overzealous officer would insist on getting their bosses involved, and the paperwork resulting from that was a Byzantine nightmare that would tangle them up in red tape for days, and England could wave goodbye to ever making his EU meeting.

"Arthur, Alasdair," Wales barked, and was surprised when both England and Scotland actually listened and shut their mouths for long enough for him to say, "we're going to miss our ferry if we don't get a move on. You can argue just as well in the car."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p>-<br>Wales hadn't intended it as a suggestion, but England and Scotland's argument started up again before they'd even turned out of England's street, although it did change focus slightly, given England's irritation at being consigned to the back seat instead of sitting in the front, which he seemed to think was his due.

"For fuck's sake, give it a rest, would you?" Scotland's voice had slowed to a lazy, blurred drawl, counterpoint to England's, which had become rapid and clipped like machine gun fire. "I'm about half a foot taller than you; I need the legroom more."

England leant forward, seatbelt pulling tight across his chest. "That is not the poi–" His words disintegrated into a low groan of pain as he slammed his heavily bandaged right hand down on the back of Scotland's seat for emphasis.

Wales winced in sympathy at the sound of the impact. "_Lloegr_, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," England said on a sharp exhale. In the rear view mirror, however, Wales' could see that his face was twisted in obvious pain, and he quickly snatched his hand back, cradling it against his chest.

There followed a brief respite of near-silence, broken only by the soft sound of England's muffled curses, which allowed Wales to believe for a moment that Scotland might let the incident pass without comment.

It was only a moment, however, because Scotland then half-turned in his seat and asked, "What happened to your hand, England?"

The question sounded like nothing more than idle curiosity, but Wales wasn't convinced, a shiver of anxiety jittering through him in response.

"Just a minor culinary mishap," England said, breath whistling slightly through his gritted teeth. "Apparently, I'll be as right as rain in a week or so."

"God bless the NHS," Scotland muttered, and then, slightly louder as he returned to his previous position: "You never mentioned that England had done himself an injury, Wales."

Wales fixed his eyes firmly on the road ahead, and tried to ignore the prickly, heated feeling racing up his neck and no doubt raising a flush to his cheeks as Scotland's gaze settled on him. "Must have slipped my mind."

Wales had hoped, rather optimistically, he had to admit, that England would somehow manage to conceal his _condition_ from Scotland for the entirety of their trip – wear gloves, perhaps, keep his hands in his pockets at all times, or even leave the right resting on top of the car as it had been before he got into it – and thus he would be able to sidestep any awkward questions about why he was accompanying England. Scotland hadn't even questioned why he was going to France before when he ostensibly had no business there, and perhaps he still wouldn't. Perhaps he wouldn't make the connection, and –

"Bet that's made things difficult," Scotland said, tone sly and insinuating, "losing the use of your dominant hand. Lots of things besides wanking you can't really do properly at the moment, right?"

Of course he would.

Wales cringed, and rushed to try and explain himself, despite the fact that he didn't have a single explanation that Scotland would accept in good grace.

"_Yr Alban_, I – " he began, but Scotland interrupted him with a loud snort of laughter and, "You're going over to play dogsbody for him, aren't you? Jesus Christ, I hope for your sake he can still put his own trousers on."

"I am perfectly capable of dressing myself," England interjected, voice forceful once more with none of his earlier hurt evident in it. "I just need a little assistance with some administrative tasks, that's all. Taking notes, and so on."

"So, just playing his secretary. Well, that's okay, then." Scotland laughed again. "Fucking hell, Wales, you are so _whipped_."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>16th April, 2010; Dover, England**

-  
>Wales had almost enjoyed the drive from Cardiff to London. On his own, Scotland was quite pleasant company – even more so than usual in recent months – and although the conversation hadn't exactly flowed, it had at least been conducted at a normal volume and not what could only charitably be considered as one notch below screaming.<p>

"It's going to start in five minutes."

Wales had briefly dated a bloke back in the Seventies who had called himself a therapist, and although Wales had been a little sceptical about the claim, seeing as though he seemed to lack qualifications or accreditation of any kind, he had given Wales' some invaluable advice about dealing with stressful situations which he still followed.

"We are not listening to the fucking Archers."

Wales consciously slowed his breathing, counting to five in his head after each deep inhalation before releasing it again.

"I haven't missed an episode in sixty years. Besides, it's Wales' car, don't you think he should have a say? You don't mind if we listen to the Archers, do you, Wales?"

Wales ignored the question, instead concentrating on imagining himself in a calm, peaceful place.

"How magnanimous of you. For fuck's sake, why can't you just catch the omnibus on Sunday like you usually do?"

He started with rolling green hills, stretching out as far as the eye could see on all sides, and a light, warm breeze ruffling his hair. The sun overhead was incandescent in the clear blue sky.

"Because I will be in bloody France on Sunday. It's only twelve minutes long. It wouldn't kill you to indulge me for _twelve minutes_, would it?"

Thinking the scene a little too bland, Wales added a deep valley, slicing through the centre of it, with a small village nestled at the bottom, ribbons of grey smoke curling up from the chimneys of the grey stone houses. Sheep popped up in the distant fields, scattered amongst the lush grass like clouds of dandelion clocks.

"Well, that's something neither of us know for certain, isn't it? Look, if you really want to listen to something, why don't we listen to this?"

Wales transmogrified the rustling sound of Scotland digging through his rucksack into the gentle whisper of swaying leaves on the small grove of trees which had just sprouted beside him. He then populated the trees' branches with a flock of small songbirds, but when they opened their beaks, all that came out was England saying:

"You are not going to subject us to ninety minutes of sodding bagpipe 'classics', Scotland. That's beyond the pale, even for you."

Wales could sense his vision slipping out of his control as the flock of England-voiced birds were startled into flight by a bagpiper strolling into view, playing something ear-splitting and discordant with no discernable tune. Apparently, he had yet again reached the limits of the power of positive thinking.

"Bagpipes or nothing, England. Choose your poison."

Thankfully, the sound of the car in front of them starting up its engine spared England having to make such a weighty choice, and Wales the onerous certainty of being called on to cast the deciding vote in the inevitable circumstances of a stalemate.

"Looks like we're ready to board, guys," he said, cheerfully. "I guess we won't have time to listen to anything."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>16th April, 2010; English Channel/La Manche**

-  
>The icy wind blowing across the deck foiled Wales' first few attempts to light his cigarette, whipped his hair into his eyes, and sliced straight through the thin jacket which had seemed a little too heavy for the mild spring weather earlier that day.<p>

Nevertheless, it still felt like an improvement on being cooped up in the cramped confines of the car, developing a headache, or even sitting in the ferry's cafeteria, listening to Scotland and England sniping at each other over plates of overcooked fish and chips, their voices lowered in deference to the other passengers bumping elbows with them, even if the temperature there was much more agreeable.

He huddled up on one of the low wooden benches near the railings that bordered the deck, smoking as best he could whilst holding his arms close against his body in an effort to preserve heat, and tried not to think of just how many more hours of enforced proximity they'd still got ahead of them before they arrived in Paris.

"Mind lending me a fag, Wales?"

The voice made the muscles in Wales' shoulders and back tense involuntarily, but they relaxed just as easily when he risked a glance upwards and saw that Scotland was alone.

"Sure," he said, handing Scotland the packet and a lighter even though he knew that 'lending' was just a euphemism for 'giving' because his brother was never likely to repay him, it being decades since he'd last bought cigarettes for himself.

Somehow, Scotland managed to get his cigarette lit first time – Wales suspected it was a knack quickly learnt when one had to deal with his country's often violent weather – and then he slumped down next to Wales, taking a deep, angry drag on it, and then blowing the smoke out of his nose in thin plumes.

"I had to get away before I ended up punting England overboard," he said afterwards, raking the fingers of his free hand through his already messy hair. "I don't know how you manage to stay so calm around him most of the time. I know he winds you up almost as much as he does me."

When the calming visualisations didn't help, which they so often didn't, Wales found that nodding and agreeing whilst not actually listening usually did, but as Scotland would probably never be able to bring himself to follow that advice, Wales could only shrug in answer.

"Patience of a saint, I guess," he said.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>16th April, 2010; near Calais, France**

-  
>There was a certain inevitability to most of Scotland and England's arguments. The majority of them had remained largely unchanged for centuries, and Wales could predict their course from the first phrase spoken, so much so that he didn't even hear the individual words anymore, they just blended into one another until they became little more than white noise. Albeit very loud white noise.<p>

Every so often, however, something would happen – some perceived slight or insult – to add novelty to their tired repertoire. Even more rarely, that something would involve Wales directly in some way, and it would be impossible for him to tune them out or ignore them because his ears would be straining for any mention of his name, every muscle in his body tightening as he anxiously awaited the moment that he would be unwillingly dragged into the conflict.

"And then you _defiled_ my dining room," England spat, raising the last finger on his left hand.

Wales feigned an expression of deep concentration, and attempted to look completely absorbed by driving.

"Defiled?" Scotland made a low, angry noise that was part shocked laughter and part growl. "For fuck's sake, how many times do I have to tell you before it sinks into your thick head that we were not fucking in your bloody dining room."

Given that that was still the worst conclusion England had come to following the fiasco that was Boxing Day, Wales wished Scotland would just accept it and stop rising to the bait every time it was posited. He wasn't sure exactly whose honour his brother was intent on defending, because no doubt France would be delighted to think he was scandalising England from afar, never mind the truth of the matter. As it was, Scotland's strenuous denial only served to make England more determined to doggedly pursue the matter long after it could have been safely forgotten.

"What were you doing, then?"

"For the hundredth– No, it's probably the fucking _thousandth_ time: We were _talking_." Scotland twisted around violently, his elbow clipping Wales' ear before it settled on the corner of his seat. Wales grimaced, but otherwise tried not to react to the contact, praying that if he kept quiet enough, then perhaps somehow his brothers might forget he was there. "Bloody hell, Wales and Ireland were in there too, as you well know. What the hell do you take me for?"

England made a dismissive sound at the back of his throat. "Well, that's as maybe, but I wouldn't put anything past the Fr–"

"Don't you dare, England. Don't you fucking dare. And I think he knows me a little better than to even suggest something like that, don't you?"

Wales' sweat-slicked palms slipped a little on the steering wheel, and he slid them back around until they reached the textbook ten-to-two position again. If France did know Scotland better than that, then it must have been knowledge he'd come into possession of fairly recently, as far as Wales could tell. Or, then again, perhaps that was why he'd always made the suggestion to Wales rather than Scotland.

Wales had turned him down every time, but it had never been as simple a decision as he would have liked. It was, he had discovered, not an easy task to refuse France much of anything when the request was mouthed against his neck, France's thigh insinuating itself between his own. The knowledge that each refusal had only come about because of the eventual realisation, when his head cleared sufficiently to enable rational thought, that Scotland would by necessity be involved in any such arrangement rather than a guilty conscience of any stripe was something Wales was still ashamed of, even though it had been a decade or more since the situation had last arisen.

"Ha ha," Wales said, feeling compelled to interject and bolster Scotland's position at this juncture. "Yes, don't be ridiculous, _Lloegr_."

"Ridiculous? I don't see what's ridiculous in wondering why the hell the four of you felt that I needed to be locked out of my own dining room if you were simply talking."

England sounded incredibly suspicious, as though he imagined there was some sort of conspiracy afoot. Which, in a way, there was, although it wasn't with the intention of keeping anything from England. Quite the opposite, really, as Wales and Scotland had been cowards about it for more than long enough, but timing was key.

Wales risked a sidelong glance at Scotland, and found that his brother was already looking at him, his eyebrows raised slightly. Wales shook his head in answer to the silent question; definitely not the time or the place, not with tempers already frayed, and the distinct possibility of crashing if England did make an attempt to kill them afterwards, which Wales suspected he would.

Scotland sighed heavily, and then settled himself back down in his seat. "Just didn't want one of the bairns wandering in," he said, "given what we were talking about. Bit too much for little ears, you ken. That's all."

"Fine," England said, though he sounded anything but, spitting the word out like it had left a bad taste in his mouth. "If that's the way you want to play it. But I will get to the bottom of this eventually, believe me."

Wales didn't doubt that, and part of him hoped that he would, if only so that it would all finally be over, and he and Scotland could stop walking on eggshells around the whole thing, nervously anticipating the damning misstep they were bound to make sooner or later.

Scotland scowled across at Wales and mouthed, "Perfect opportunity wasted."

"Fuck off," Wales mouthed back. "Not whilst I'm bloody driving."

Scotland turned his head to glower out of the window instead, but after a moment, he started bouncing his right leg and fidgeting with his hands, which suggested that he was finding it difficult to stay quiet.

"We have shagged in your bed, though," Scotland said eventually, and although it caused England to make a strangled noise that sounded somewhat like he was choking on his own tongue, Wales thought it was still infinitely preferable to the alternative.  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>16th April 2010; near Paris, France**

-  
>Wales' calm place was nothing more than scorched earth and ashes now, the sun obscured by a haze of black smoke, and he couldn't find any solace in it, no matter how hard he tried.<p>

Scotland was haranguing England about some bastardly thing or other that he'd done back in the sixteenth century, and although Wales was sure that it probably was just as heinous as Scotland was insinuating, he found that he didn't have it in him to care.

His empathy had died about thirty miles back, when he'd seriously contemplated driving the car off the road just so he didn't have to hear England say, 'I'm not sure you understand my point,' again in that sniffy, supercilious tone of voice he always used whenever he was backed into a corner, or yet another repetition of, 'You know what you what your problem is, England?'.

Every effort Wales had made to distract his brothers had been swept aside: they'd ignored his attempts to change whatever subject they'd fixated on at that moment in time and his suggestion that they stop for a while and stretch their legs, and turning on the radio to almost full blast had only caused them to raise their own voices in kind. He was surprised they hadn't talked themselves hoarse, but they seemed to be drawing on some endless source of energy, and he suspected that if they were left to their own devices, then they would just never stop.

Beside him, Scotland's harsh laughter cut through whatever fresh justification England had just provided him with that Wales hadn't cared enough to listen to, and then he said, "You know what your –"

Wales slammed his foot down heavily on the car's brake, the movement a reflex action that he wasn't aware that he was going to make until he did. The van that had been following them blared its horn and then swerved around the car as it skidded to a halt, the driver shouting something unflattering about Wales' hypothetical mother through his open window as he passed.

Wales dragged in deep breath after deep breath, but it did nothing to calm the racing of his heart, the sharp pulses of pain that shot across the back of his skull in concert with every beat of it. Shouting, "Will you both just shut the fuck up," seemed to do more to lessen some of the tension that had caused his hands to clench so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles had started aching, however.

As did continuing with, "Two hours you've been at it. _Two fucking hours_. Don't you ever get tired of it? Because I sure as hell am. I swear if I hear another word about something shitty England did centuries ago, or sodding Boxing Day, then –"

"You're going to turn the car around and there'll be no Paris for anyone?" Scotland suggested, sounding slightly sheepish.

It felt almost like running into a brick wall, and Wales' momentum left him in a rush of exhaled breath and confusion. "What?"

"And we won't get to stop for ice cream, either?" England added, in a similar tone to Scotland.

Wales wanted to tell them that they weren't funny and it wasn't going to work, but found that he couldn't summon up the necessary level of irritation anymore, just the jittery remnants of spent adrenaline that made him chuckle shakily.

"You are both complete and utter wankers," he said instead, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the centre of the steering wheel. "You know that, right?"

"Sorry, Wales," Scotland muttered, and then patted Wales roughly once on the back of his bowed head in what was probably meant to be some sort of conciliatory gesture but which only served to exacerbate Wales' already agonising headache.

"My apologies, too, Wales," England said, a little stiffly.

It wasn't often that either of them apologised for their behaviour, but Wales knew well enough that the contrition was likely to ring hollow if he didn't put his foot down firmly enough, metaphorically speaking this time.

"Right, either you're civil to each other the rest of the way, or none of us says another fucking word, I don't care which it is," he said. "And if you can't manage that, I'm sure as hell not giving you a lift back on Tuesday."  
>-<p>

* * *

><p><strong>-<br>19th April, 2010; Paris, France**

-  
>Wales had been asked on six occasions if he was England's PA, and then, after answering that he was actually England's brother, he'd had to explain a further three times that no, he wasn't that brother and so didn't have any idea why France hadn't arrived yet.<p>

After receiving his seventh very puzzled look, he'd decided to just keep his head down and concentrate on sharpening pencils, rearranging the stacks of paper on the table in front of him, and all the other 'essential administrative tasks' that England had delegated to him.

"Where the hell is that bastard?" England asked yet again, twisting around in his chair to glare intently at the door to the conference room as though he could will the other nation into being if he only concentrated hard enough.

"Funnily enough, I have no more idea now than I did two minutes ago, or even the two minutes before that." Wales stapled another sheaf of handouts together, and then added them to the pile at England's elbow. "Why don't you give him a ring and find out if you're that bothered?"

"I am not bothered," England huffed, despite the fact that the only words out of his mouth for the past half-hour or so had been inquiries as to France's whereabouts. "I'd just prefer not to be stuck here all bloody day simply because he can't be arsed to drag himself out of bed."

"Does this happen a lot?"

"No, he's usually here on the dot because, apparently, the whole shebang would fall apart without him." England's tone was scathing, and Wales thought it politic not to mention that it was evident that his presence did seem to be essential because although Germany's expression had moved from pensive, all the way through concerned, and was now approaching trying-to-pass-a-kidney-stone, he still hadn't started the meeting. "He's no doubt… Fucking hell."

"What is it, _Lloegr_?" Wales asked, turning in his own seat to look towards the door as England's face drained of all its colour and he began spluttering fragments of words that were largely nonsensical but still had a definite Anglo-Saxon flavour.

For once, the stream of broken invectives didn't seem to be directed towards France, who had just breezed into the conference room, greeting everyone assembled loudly and cheerfully as though blithely unaware of his own tardiness and the fact that the majority of the assembled nations looked merely relieved rather than delighted to see him finally appear, but Scotland instead, who had sloped in after him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," England eventually managed to articulate clearly. "What the hell is he doing here?"

"Maybe he's just dropping France off," Wales said, a mite optimistically he had to admit, given that Scotland was wearing a suit – looking as stiff and awkward as he usually did in business wear – and, more tellingly, _not going away again_ now that France had settled himself into the chair reserved for him beside Germany.

In fact, not only was Scotland not going away, but, after a moment of hovering by the door looking a little uncomfortable and a lot like a spare part, he seemed to arrive at a decision and stomped over to where England and Wales were sitting, the stark lines formed by his set shoulders and thinned lips both radiating a sense of grim determination.

"Morning," he said gruffly, grabbing one of the spare chairs from the pile stacked against the wall behind them and plonking it down between his brothers'.

"What the hell are you doing here?" England asked again, the question sounding slightly more urgent than when he'd posed it to Wales.

Scotland took a moment to settle himself before he answered, carefully adjusting the fall of his jacket so that it didn't crumple up behind him; a consideration he didn't normally pay his clothes. On closer inspection, the suit did look to be of higher quality than the M&S ones Scotland usually wore when the occasion demanded it, even to Wales' unschooled eye. That, coupled with the silk tie that was the exact same shade of green as his eyes, and the highly-polished shoes, suggested that France had had an even greater input than usual in Scotland's choice of outfit that morning.

"Paying my way," Scotland said, offering England a small smile that was bordering on a smirk. "That is what you wanted me to do, isn't it?"

"Paying your…" England's face flushed deep red. "What happened to not stepping foot in another meeting until you're 'free from the Sassenach yoke'? Christ, all the times I could have done with a little –"

"Never said I was here for you, did I? I've come to help Wales." As though to reinforce his statement, he started rifling through the mountain of papers Wales had already sorted, disturbing their carefully-constructed order.

"I appreciate the thought, _Yr Alban_," Wales said, reaching out to take the documents from his brother before they were irretrievably muddled, "but I –"

"'Come to help Wales'" England parroted, affecting something that sounded like a bad parody of a bad parody of a Scottish accent. "How very noble of you, Scotland."

"Why the fuck else do you think I'd be here?" Scotland relinquished the papers to Wales in favour of picking up one of the newly-sharpened pencils. From the way he gripped it – rather more like a sword than a writing utensil – Wales feared that he was considering stabbing England in the eye with it.

Wales leant around Scotland and swept the rest of the pencils aside, along with the pens and anything else within arm's reach that looked as though it could be used as a makeshift weapon in a pinch. He'd been lucky on Friday, all things considered, that there had at least been the length of the car between his brothers, preventing their arguments from becoming too physical; something that happened all too often, especially when their tempers were as short with each other as they had been recently.

He quickly scanned the table, noting that more than one head had turned their way, and tried to judge how easily the situation could disintegrate into carnage if it escalated. France would doubtless jump in on Scotland's side, if it came to that, which he thought would probably cause a domino effect of other nations being pulled into the fray. And on England's side, there would be… Well, there would probably be Portugal, and likely Wales too, if he didn't get out of the way fast enough, but his only consideration would be getting England the hell out of the firing line so he didn't get completely trounced.

From his left he caught the word 'Bannockburn' which, quite aside from causing him to wonder how the hell things had deteriorated that quickly, made it clear that the carnage was nigh on inevitable. He leant back in his chair and closed his eyes, allowing himself to indulge in the calmest place he knew that he only broke out in the direst of circumstances: the one where, on his return home, he discovered that his entire country had somehow detached itself from England and he could float out into the Atlantic Ocean, far away from the rest of his family, to enjoy a bit of Splendid Isolation of his own for a little while.


	2. Epilogue

**20th April, 2010; Paris, France**

-  
>Wales' French is not fluent anymore, but it's passable; good enough to hold a conversation so long as nobody speaks too quickly or uses any complicated words.<p>

It's definitely not good enough to navigate a French hospital, however.

The receptionist at the front desk had given him what he thought were exhaustive directions, but half an hour on, he's stuck in a continuous loop, travelling up and down the same two sets of stairs and round and round the same four corridors. Completely and utterly lost, and completely and utterly unable to make sense of any of the signs littered with medical jargon that are dotted around the place, helpfully pointing to departments he doubts he would recognise even if they were named in English.

He'd give it all up as a bad job and go back to the hotel if he thought he had any hope in hell of finding the front doors again, either. His square of corridors may well be the wrong ones, but at least they're familiar. He fears if he deviates too far from his path he might find himself in some scarcely visited part of the building, lost without hope of recovery unless someone stumbled upon him by happenstance; nothing to sustain him but the contents of his conciliatory fruit basket.

Or, of course, he could suck it up and ask for directions again. Actually, he should probably have done so a good twenty minutes or so back, never mind that the idea fills him with consternation every time he considers it. It's a strategy of last resort even back home, where there's no language barrier to overcome, and everyone looks so busy, rushing around with their clipboards and pensive expressions that he's loath to subject them to his trifling concerns and stumbling French.

"_Excusez-moi de vous déranger_," he mutters under his breath as he walks, practising what he's going to say so that he doesn't hold anyone up for too long, "_mais_… _Mais_… Bloody hell."

Where the French for 'can you tell me how to get' should be in his mind, there's nothing but a blank silence. Such a fucking simple phrase, one that would doubtless roll easily off his tongue under any other circumstances, but now it's difficult to even think how to begin.

"_Pouvez-vous_," he ventures, and it sounds encouragingly plausible. "_Pouvez-vous me_… _dire_?" That doesn't seem quite right. Maybe it should be: "_M'indiquer_? _Pouvez-vous m'indiq_–"

"You," someone shouts from behind him in English.

Wales smiles with relief, presuming that a nurse or doctor had noticed his aimless wandering and squinting at signs and taken pity on him when they correctly surmised that he was both clueless and British. When he swivels on his heel, however, he discovers that the person who had hailed him isn't a member of the medical staff at all, but a nation. Grumpy Italy, in fact, looking even more cantankerous than usual; face blotchy and lips twisted into a snarl.

Wales had hoped to drop off his gift and card without attracting the notice of anyone, their recipient included, and the slip away again unseen. Admittedly, it had been something of a pipe dream, and Wales _had_ made contingency plans in case Nice Italy happened to be awake, but he foolishly hadn't thought to consider what he might do if he ran into Romano instead.

"Erm, hello?" he says experimentally, because there's no harm in being polite.

Romano's eyebrows descend, his nostrils flare, and he advances on Wales, fists clenched. He's only got an inch of height on Wales, if that, and Wales probably has a weight advantage of at least a couple of stones, so the sight's not exactly intimidating, especially for someone who'd grown up with Scotland. He still finds himself backing away until his shoulder blades nudge up against a wall, nevertheless, because Romano's demeanour is an all too familiar one, and Wales knows full well that all the physical advantages in the world are next to useless in the face of that sort of determination.

Romano stops only when he's brought up short by the large basket cradled in Wales' arms, and he growls, "You're the bastard who knocked my brother out."

Wales winces at the reminder. "It was an accident," he says hurriedly. Romano doesn't look convinced. "I really am very sorry, though. I brought apology fruit," he inclines his head downwards, "and a card. It's in my pocket, if you'll just let me –"

"You broke his nose," Romano says, clearly not placated. He leans forward, and the edge of the basket digs deep into the skin over Wales' sternum.

"I did?" France had mentioned that Italy had a slight concussion and needed some stitches, and that was bad enough. "Shit. Honestly, if someone did that to one of my brothers, I'd want to punch them too, but –"

A door to Wales' right opens suddenly, and Germany's head pokes out. "Could you keep," he begins, voice firm and expression censorious. The certainty fades from his voice and expression both as he turns his head and notices Wales and Romano. "Wales?" he says, a little tentatively.

Wales knows that the warm surge of pleasure he feels in response to the name is completely ridiculous – especially as he fucking hates to hear it normally – but it makes him smile, regardless.

The smile is short-lived, though, as he realises that the reason Germany recognises him is likely that he remembers the complete spectacle Wales made of himself at the previous year's G-20 summit, blubbering on poor Canada's shoulder because it had been, in retrospect, far too soon after Cerys left him for Wales to be attempting to be sociable.

The realisation tempers his pathetic gratitude for not having to explain his existence for once, and enables him to limit his reply to a reasonable, "Hello, _Yr Almaen_."

The pressure on Wales' chest lessens slightly as Romano shifts his position. "You're England's brother?" He looks at Wales suspiciously. "I thought you were his secretary or something."

As did half of the EU, it had become apparent at yesterday's meeting, although Wales had thought that the fact that he'd managed to concuss Italy and, it seemed, break his nose when they knocked heads would have made it abundantly clear that he wasn't human.

"_Lloegr_'s hurt his hand, so he needed someone to drive him here and take notes for him. It's not something I make a habit of, but…" But Wales has absolutely no idea why he's trying to justify himself, although he's quite happy to lay the blame on Scotland and his non-stop piss taking over the last couple of days. Really, he should be trying his best to leave as soon as possible, not prolonging the conversation. To that end, he says, "Look, I just wanted to apologise and leave this for _Yr Eidal_."

"Please, bring it in," Germany says, stepping aside and gesturing towards the open doorway.

Wales can't refuse without looking like a complete prick, no matter how much he might like to simply shove the fruit at Germany and make a run for it. It's not as though they see each other regularly enough that such behaviour will come back and bite him on the arse – the next time he meets either Germany or Romano is likely to be a couple of decades hence, by which time they probably won't even recall who he is, never mind any twattish behaviour they'd witnessed – but he supposes he does owe Italy a personal apology, at least, now he's been discovered.

He sidles past Romano, who continues to glare at him as he walks away, if the prickling at the back of Wales' neck is anything to go by, and then hesitantly enters Italy's room.

The top of the narrow bed's almost hidden by the profusion of flowers set upon the small cabinets on either side of it, but Wales can just about make out Italy's head though the mass of foliage overhanging it. He has a bulky bandage taped to his forehead, but looks otherwise unmarred; face peaceful in what looks to be a very deep sleep. Perhaps too deep.

"Fuck," Wales says, his guilt rising full force anew, "he's not unconscious, is he?"

Germany shakes his head. "Just sleeping," he whispers back, making Wales feel even more ashamed for not having kept his own voice lowered.

Germany sits down in one of the hard plastic chairs beside the bed, and before Wales has chance to even consider whether or not he'd be welcome to take the other, Romano plonks himself down heavily into it. He looks smugly up at Wales as though he's won some sort of point or other, despite the fact that, as Italy's brother, he has every right to make himself – relatively – more comfortable at his bedside.

It does, however, leave Wales unsure of what he should be doing with himself instead. Sitting on the edge of the bed is obviously out of the question, but, then again, so is hovering uncertainly in the doorway, where he'd be in everyone's way and uncomfortably aware that he's not exactly welcome besides.

Clearing out a spot amongst the 'Get Well Soon' cards on the windowsill to place his own card and fruit basket seems like a good idea, but it only offers a momentary distraction, even after he takes care to line everything up perfectly afterwards. When he turns back towards the bed, Germany has laid one hand on top of the blanket, his fingers almost but not quite touching Italy's. Judging by Romano's glowering, this is almost as great an offence to his brother's person as head-butting him.

As is edging discreetly away towards the door, Wales discovers, as he attempts to make another break for it, thinking Romano's attention had finally shifted away from him fully. Apparently, he's not wanted here, but not allowed to leave either.

He finds himself tightly clutching his mobile phone inside his coat pocket, and desperately willing England to find himself in need of a secretary some time very, very soon.


End file.
